


A Few Close Calls

by kyaorii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Doctor John Watson, Drugged Sherlock, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Sherlock, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Post S4, Post-Mary's Death, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Worried John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaorii/pseuds/kyaorii
Summary: Sherlock is always getting himself injured and it's up to his doctor, John Hamish Watson, to save him, whether it be directly or indirectly. John worries that there will be a time where he won't be able to save him if his carelessness continues. Changes have to be made.





	1. Forgotten Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is careless when out on a case and gets himself shot. John, unaware of Sherlock's whereabouts, is getting more and more panicked by the minute.

The gunshot hadn't been anticipated by Sherlock, and before he knew it he was laid limply on the cold, wet concrete floor of a back alley with a bullet wound gushing blood. After being reliably informed by Mind Palace Molly Hooper the last time he was shot in the front of his abdomen, he thought best to fall onto his back; reducing blood loss was crucial in giving John enough time to arrive and save him. That's how it worked before, although somehow it was Mary who saved him.

Oh.  **John**. He has no idea.

Sherlock had left 221B without leaving a note for John to read once he returned from the clinic. He also didn't have time to contact the doctor via text message as he was in pursuit with a criminal. John wouldn't be able to save him if he didn't know where he was. How could he be so _stupid_ as to not inform his blogger of his whereabouts?

"You were always the stupid one," Mycroft would say, and he was right. He is, and always has been, completely and utterly right about Sherlock's stupidity when it came to social interaction. He is a sociopath, after all.

Sherlock was going to die alone in a damp, dark alley all because he failed to contact his best friend. He tried to reach for his mobile, but to no avail: his arms weren't cooperating and refused to move at all. 

Sherlock, instead, thought what would become of John: would he miss him? He did before, after the fall, but would he now? After everything that he's done? Everything with Mary and Eurus? It wasn't the first time that Sherlock doubted he would care about him. John had hurt him before and said things before that caused an uneasy feeling to emerge in Sherlock. It was his fault for making John mad all those times so he deserved it.

**I'm sorry, John. Goodbye.**

 

* * * * *

 

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he plodded up the stairs to 221B. The silence he heard in response was no surprise to him. "That arce is probably dancing around in his Mind Palace again," he chuckled to himself. John turned the handle and made his way into the sitting room. The sofa was empty and there was no sign of Sherlock: no experiments or body parts strewn accross the kitchen counter, nothing. "Sherlock?" John repeated, but in a more concerned tone. There was no reply. "He can't be sleeping, can he?" He thought.

As he had guessed, Sherlock's bedroom was empty (Sherlock doesn't _sleep_ ). John rummaged around in Sherlock's drawers and when the usual kiss of cold metal, as his fingers came into contact with Sherlock's gun, wasn't there, he felt a spike of fear impale his body.

"Shit."

He had noticed that his coat and scarf were missing too when he came into the flat. "What the hell is he up to?" John asked himself as he took out his phone and proceeded to message Sherlock. 

'Where the hell are you?! - JW'

 **No reply**. 

'Goddamit Sherlock! Don't tell me you've gone out on a case whilst I've been at the clinic! - JW'

 **Again, no reply**.

Something was definitely wrong, very wrong. It wasn't normal for Sherlock to disappear and attempt to solve a case without his doctor or not reply within a split second of receiving a message from him. Like he said, "I am lost without my blogger!" John knew that he would have to call Mycroft, although it wasn't very appealing. He soon realised, scrolling through the contacts on his mobile, that he didn't have his number. Oh, but he has Anthea's! I guess Anthea it is, then!

"Hello John," Anthea answered, far from cheerfully, through the phone, "What do you need?"

John took a deep breath to calm himself, there's no use in panicing, "It's Sherlock," he sighed.

"Say no more," she said before abruptly hanging up. Great. Fantastic.

It seemed like mere moments before John's phone rang. "At least I know his priorities," John thought, forcing out a chuckle to calm himself.

A sigh could be heard through the phone, "What has brother-mine gotten himself into this time?" Mycroft, as expected.

"He's gone out," John said bluntly, "Where he could be, I don't know, but it can't be somewhere good." He swallowed, and felt the slight tightness of panic return to his chest.

Mycroft asked, "Why would that be?"

John swallowed again before answering, the panic tightening its grip on him even more, "He took his _gun_ , Mycroft! If he was going to Barts, he would have left it, but no, he took it with him. He only takes it out when on a case, and if he were on a case he would have at least texted me!" John felt something more than panic overcome him causing him to clench his fists over and over again. "For God's sake, Mycroft, just find-"

"He was last seen by my cameras chasing after what seems to be a criminal," Mycroft interrupted, "The pursuit went down a back alley near Main Street which is where I lost sight of him." There was silence for a second until a quiet screech was heard outside, "I've sent a car to take you there."

John felt slightly relieved as he slammed the door behind him. God knows what Sherlock could have used the gun for: he could have even-. The thought that Sherlock could have been contemplating suicide sent a uncomfortable shiver down John's spine. Don't think about it. He was glad to know it was only intended for shooting a criminal, but still, criminals are as equally dangerous to Sherlock as any harmful weapon. What if they did have a weapon? John became more uneasy. The journey was lasting forever, and John was too worried to keep still in his seat.

**Hurry, John.**


	2. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives in the alley to find Sherlock bleeding out on the cold concrete. Will he save him, or will Sherlock die for real this time?

The car pulled up at the entrance to the alleyway, that Sherlock was last seen entering by Mycroft's security cameras. I don't think John had ever moved so fast in his entire life: he bolted out of the vehicle at such speed and force that one could be knocked completely off balance if he were to collide with them. His heavy boots echoed loudly as he sprinted down the alley at full throttle.

**Stop**.

John had finally found him.

It was dark, but even with limited lighting, John could tell it was Sherlock. His Cupid's bow parted, sculpted cheekbones emphasised by the dark shadows, and his brown curls laid wet and limp on his forehead, similar to how Sherlock himself laid: sprawled out across the cold, hard ground. For a second, John thought he was dead: His position reminded him so much of the incident at Barts that he was sure of it; The shallow rise and fall of Sherlock's chest persuaded him otherwise. When John noticed the blood stain on Sherlock's, usually pristine, white shirt, a voice in his head, likely Sherlock himself, murmured, "Vatican Cameos," and he was instantly sent into 'army doctor mode.'

He sprinted the rest of the distance to Sherlock's body and threw himself down to kneel beside him. Confidently, John tore open Sherlock's shirt, buttons flying off in all directions, to survey the damage. It wasn't good. The wound was oozing blood, and had been for quite some time. Sherlock was lucky, though, the bullet had pierced through a small section of his torso where there were no vital organs and his current position used gravity to his advantage. 

He could be saved, thank God.

John tore off a large chunk of Sherlock's shirt and scrunched it up into a ball. With just enough pressure, he pressed down with one hand onto the wound to restrict the bleeding. His other hand reached for his mobile and dialed '999'.

"I need an ambulance immediately!" John demanded,"My best friend has been shot and he requires urgent medical attention."

Next, it was time to phone Mycroft. Since his last call, a new contact has appeared in John's phone. His usual self, deep inside him, just wished that Mycroft would not hack his phone for once, but it was something to complain about later. Sherlock is dying and Mycroft needs to know.

Mycroft answered immediately, "Have you found-?"

"Yes," John interrupted, "He was shot and there's an ambulance on the way."

Mycroft hung up and swiftly made his way into his personal escort car, accompanied by his high-heeled assistant, Anthea, who speedily tapped the keys on her mobile phone.

"Please, Sherlock," John pleaded, as he tried to keep enough force on the wound, "Don't do this to me again."

 

* * * * *

 

Due to the traffic, and overall business of Central London, the ambulance and its crew took approximately 6 minutes to arrive. Each member rushed out carrying various items: oxygen masks, first aid kits, and one even had a defibrillator (Oh how John wished they would never need that). They urged John to edge away from Sherlock so that they could do their job. It was then, when staring at the crowd of people surrounding Sherlock, that John realised how serious it was. The adrenaline had worn off and he was now shaking quite furiously, panic gaining hold of him once more as he gazed upon his blood-covered hands.

_Sherlock's_ blood.

John, still panicked and probably in need of a shock blanket, contemplated what could have happened differently. What if Sherlock was shot somewhere else? What if he never found him? What if the ambulance was any later? What if Sherlock **died**?

It still could happen, John thought. Sherlock was still limp and had not yet been transferred onto the stretcher by the paramedics. They were all crowding his body to try and get him into a stable condition before he had to be rushed to St Bart's Hospital for surgery.

John, observing the practiced actions of the crew keeping Sherlock alive, soon became distracted by the feeling of light- headedness caused by the lack of food and now intense exhaustion mixed with panic and the fear that Sherlock could die. He didn't realise that he was being ushered inside the ambulance alongside the stretcher that Sherlock was now sprawled out upon.

Almost immediately, the ambulance started and rushed out onto the main road. Its siren screeched in demand of a pathway through the traffic to ensure Sherlock would make it to St Barts on time. The paramedics continued to care for him as John watched, unable to assist anymore in saving his detective's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received some lovely comments about my writing so far and I'm honestly shocked: I never expected such praise for my writing. Thank you for your kindness and I'll continue to do my best when writing this fan fiction, and possibly those that are to come!
> 
> I would just like to let you know that I won't be consistent with the updates for 'A Few Close Calls', due to my priority being GCSE exam revision in the upcoming two months or so. I will attempt to update whenever possible, but no promises can be made for when the next chapters will be released.


	3. Hospitalised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes it to St Bart's Hospital in the nick of time. John can only sit and wait to receive the news of the surgery.

John last saw Sherlock, well over 6 hours ago, when he was being wheeled at a lightning pace down the bright corridoors of St Bart's Hospital, towards the operating theatre. Upon their arrival, John confronted the head surgeon, who refused to let him in. He was a doctor, for Pete's sake! And Sherlock was his best friend!

Still, he didn't push it, as he was exhausted already, and ended up having to wait outside instead. If he were Sherlock, he would have been screaming, "Boring!" at the top of his lungs after not even 20 minutes of sitting there. All the walls were blank so there weren't any mundane posters to read and re-read again and again to pass the time.

Every half-hour or so, a pretty nurse (called Karen, I think) came to check up on John: she brought him glasses of water; brought snacks from the nearby vending machine; and when the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, she brought him a bacon sandwich along with a rather watery cup of tea. Scrawled on the bottom of the paper wrapping encasing the sandwich was a phone number. Presumably Karen's number.

When John next saw her, she winked cheekily. _Definitely_ Karen's number.

He was thankful for her kindness, but he had just wanted to have a nap for ages and her almost constant interruptions prevented that. She was pretty though, so he didn't really mind in the end.

"Doctor John Watson?" 

He turned his head uncomfortably fast so that he was now looking in the general direction of the voice.

 _Finally_. One of the surgeons had emerged from the operating theatre after what had seemed like forever.

The surgeon continued, "Mr Holmes' surgery was successful and he has now been transferred to a nearby room to recover." He gestured, with one hand, down the empty corridoor.

John, with dark circles under his eyes, just nodded, arose from his chair and took the hint that he should follow.

 

* * * * *

 

Like the surgeon said, the room wasn't that far at all: it took less than 3 minutes to arrive there. Inside the room, it was almost completely white, blindingly white. It hurt John's tired eyes. The only things that weren't white in the entire room were Sherlock's generic hospital robes and the bouquet of flowers that was sitting in a clear glass vase on the bedside table. 

"Thistles," John murmured to himself, grinning gently. They were quite a perculiar choice, but everyone knows Sherlock isn't normal. Mycroft seemed to know that as they were apparently from him, according to the small note attached to the bouquet. He must know about his admiration of bees and, since bees love thistles, his apparent love for the purple plant too.

Mycroft seems to bloody know everything! Smart arse.

Soon, he flung himself down into the chair facing Sherlock's bed. It was rather comfortable compared to the one he had been in for over 6 hours. Its quality suggested that it might have been courtesy of Mycroft: a hospital having chairs like these was unheard of. Anyway, he had been accustomed to Barts for quite some time and he had never seen a chair like this before.

John felt himself slowly drifting off in the comfort of the chair as he observed the unconscious Sherlock. He looked surprisingly peaceful considering he had been shot. I suppose anyone would have if they had been as close to death as Sherlock had been in the past few hours. One could say that it was like he had already reached Nirvana, despite still being alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the time being, I'm keeping each chapter fairly short and sweet. It will allow me to update more frequently and ensure that the quality of the narrative is as good as it can be.  
> Thank you to those who have given me kudos, it is greatly appreciated <3
> 
> \- kawaii_melon


	4. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up to find himself in a hospital bed with John sleeping in a chair across the room.

"Beep."

What on earth is that? It sounds familiar...

"Beep."

There it is again, but slightly louder this time.

"Beep."

Sherlock slowly faded into conciousness and found himself in a hospital room listening to the beep of the heart monitor plugged in next to him. It was too bright and it took a while for his eyes to adjust. He observed that he was laid in a bed and he was dressed in hospital garments, but, for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on why he was there in the first place. 

The numbness from the anaesthetic seemed to provide the answer as to why he'd forgotten. Drugs like that had the ability to completely slow down Sherlock's brain functions, which was helpful when he needed to silence his whirring brain, but right now it wasn't helping much.

Brushing off the reason why he was there, Sherlock turned to observing the rest of the room: thistles in a vase on the bedside table, apparently from Mycroft; John, asleep in a chair; and not much else really.

Wait. **John**.

His slow brain had initially glossed over the fact that John was even there. 

Fragments of Sherlock's memory were slowly coming back to him. He recalled that he was going to die and that he was certain John wouldn't be able to save him. Clearly, that wasn't the case. Unless... No. Nobody else would care enough to save him. It had to have been John.

"Jawn," Sherlock said, weakly as he was still being effected by the drugs the doctors had injected into him.

John didn't budge. 

He must have been exhausted, Sherlock thought. He still wanted John's attention though so he repeated, "Jawn," multiple times, each time slightly increasing the volume, before John actually awoke from his slumber.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asked sternly as he slowly adjusted to the bright lights in the room. Seriously, they need to dim those lights a little.

"John, did you save me?" Sherlock asked. You could tell he was a bit out of it as he was asking obvious questions. Usually, that was Anderson's job.

John took a deep sigh, "Of course I did, you git! I nearly didn't because you forgot to text me about whatever case you were on and you ended up getting yourself shot!"

 _Oh_ , that's why he's here. He was careless and got shot by some lowlife.

Silence filled the room for a while. Sherlock was trying to rearrange his Mind Palace to try and figure out what actually went wrong. As the anaesthetic slowly began to decrease in volume, he remembered that he was in pursuit with a criminal, who ended up drawing his gun and eventually shot him.

 _Idiot_.

He realised that he too had been carrying a gun, but completely forgot to use it for its intended purpose.

Sherlock continued to think as John began to drift off again in the Mycroft-provided chair. "How did John find me?" Sherlock thought. He hadn't even contacted him, and yet John had managed to locate the alley Sherlock was left to die in.

"Jawn," Sherlock repeated once more.

Suddenly, John awoke in his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he asked, "What is it now, Sherlock?"

"How did you find me, Jawn?" Sherlock asked, wide-eyed. A complete contrast to how John was. Waiting well over 6 hours in a hospital didn't really make you feel energetic.

"Well," John paused, "When I discovered that 221B was empty and that your gun was missing I got worried and called Mycroft. He looked at his cameras and found exactly where you were last seen: just outside the alley where I found you."

 **Worried**? "You were _worried_ , John?" Sherlock giggled. He completely ignored the rest of what John had just said as the thought of John being worried about him was very amusing to his still slightly drugged-up brain.

John sighed again, "Yes I was, Sherlock, now get some rest for God's sake!"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, abruptly. He sounded a bit like a toddler in a strop.

Soon, both the detective and the doctor were sleeping soundly in the hospital room. Sherlock was glad John saved him and John, despite seeming annoyed with Sherlock, was secretly glad he saved him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it!  
> Thank you all for the kudos, bookmarks and hits. Your support for my fic is amazing!  
> Thanks again!
> 
> \- kawaii_melon <3


	5. Unforgotten Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock about his actions the night before and once Sherlock has recovered, he returns to find 221B empty.

When John finally awoke, Sherlock was already sitting bolt-upright, eyes closed, hands pushed together with his two index fingers gently brushing his lower lip. Through a gap in the blinds, a ray of sunlight shone through, landing gracefully on the side of Sherlock's sculpted cheek. For a second, John thought that Sherlock almost looked beautiful as he bathed in the sunlight.

John quickly clenched his eyes closed and shook the thought off. It hadn't been long since Mary had passed, his **wife** had passed, and it wouldn't be responsible of him if he got caught up thinking about _that sort of thing_ when he has a young daughter to care for.

Without even opening his eyes, Sherlock greeted John, his voice hoarse from sleeping, "Good afternoon, John." Despite being in his Mind Palace, he was aware that John's movements had altered which suggested that he had finally woken up.

John, voice also rough, replied, "Afternoon, Sherlock," before taking a sip of the lukewarm tea he found placed beside him. It soon dawned on him that it was the _afternoon_ , had he really slept for that long? "Oh shit," John thought. He was late to his shift at the clinic and Rosie had been left in Molly's care.

Sherlock, distracted by how loudly John was thinking, opened his eyes and turned to look at him. He can't organise his Mind Palace if John is having a _crisis_.

"John," he started, but paused when he realised how utterly buggered John looked: dark bags were under his bloodshot eyes, and his usually well-kept hair was messy and slightly greasy. After his observations, Sherlock continued, "Mycroft informed the clinic of your absence today and he asked Mrs Hudson if she could have Rosie in her care, as Molly has work to do at the morgue. She was reluctant to listen to Mycroft, she despises him. I find it quite hilarious."

John chuckled at Sherlock's comment on the end, thankful that he was trying to lighten the mood, but soon his face returned to a more serious demeanour. He had to ask him. "What the _hell_ were you doing chasing criminals on your own?!" John questioned, sternly.

Sherlock averted his gaze from John. "I forgot, John," he muttered.

"You forgot what you were doing? Do you have amnesia?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, _John_ ," Sherlock sighed, turning back to face him. John can be such an idiot sometimes, but Sherlock doesn't help by being vague. "I forgot to contact you about the case and I had been shot before I realised."

John laughed sarcastically, "You know you're an absolute git, right? You _always_ tell me about cases, so why not this time?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock replied, looking down at his, now intertwined, hands. "I really don't know."

Arising from his seat and turning to face the window, John clenched his fists. "Do you have _any_ fucking idea how much you made me worry, Sherlock?" John's fists continued clenching over and over. "When I found you lying there, it reminded me so much of when you jumped and I-" John paused and brought his hands up to touch his face, "I just couldn't bear to see you like that again."

Sherlock didn't know what to do. The last time he was like this was when he confronted Mary, or rather the Mary in his head, about his affair with another woman. Sherlock's current state prevented him from hugging John like he did before. "I'm sorry, John," he apologised. He had to settle for an apology because that was all he could do.

John was silent for a while, just staring blankly out of the hospital window. The time Sherlock died kept replaying over and over in his head. He thought that it would be best to leave, alcohol was needed to calm him down. "I'm going, Sherlock. Make sure you rest," John urged, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

 

* * * * *

 

After not even a day of recovery from his bullet wound, Sherlock left the hospital. He deemed himself fit enough to return to Baker Street. In all honesty, he probably wasn't, but the confinement of the hospital was far too mind-numbingly boring. He could at least shoot the wall back at home; it would be frowned upon to do that in a hospital.

Upon his arrival at 221B, Sherlock observed that John wasn't there. He half-expected it. His own incompetence made John worry which, as a result, made John angry. It was likely to be best for him to keep at a distance from John for a while.

Walking in through the doorway, he hung up his Belstaff, along with his blue scarf, on the coat stand. Noticing the deerstalker hooked on it, Sherlock was reminded of his adventures with John. It made him smile: not a fake smile, a genuine smile.

Sherlock then wandered over to the window and picked up his precious violin. He began to play a self-composed tune as he gazed outside at the hustle and bustle of traffic passing by.

The tune reminded him of **John**. Everything about John and all of the cases they've been on came flooding into his brain. He soon realised that he could have lost it all: the thrill of a case and John by his side. Sherlock could have died, but he didn't. He could have died when he jumped off of St Barts too, but he didn't. He nearly died so many times, for John. He would die for real, for John. He would kill again, for John. He would become the worst human imaginable, for John. Everything he did was for John, his only friend.

Lost in his thoughts and memories of John, as he played the tune on the violin, Sherlock failed to hear the sound of footsteps creeping up the staircase behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help but leave it on a cliffhanger. I'm sorry! (Not sorry, lol)  
> I seem to have the general gist of the plot of my fan fiction, so it might be a little easier to figure out what the hell I'm doing.  
> Thank you all for your continued support, despite my inconsistency with updating the story.
> 
> \- kawaii_melon


	6. Intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets knocked unconscious by an intruder and is thrown into a van. John returns to find Baker Street empty, again.

Abruptly, the delicate violin music ceased to be played. Then, there was a loud thud, accompanied by the clatter of the violin and bow against the hardwood flooring.

Sherlock had been hit across the back of the head with some kind of blunt object, maybe a metal pipe, and was now unconscious on the floor of 221B. Who he had been hit by was unknown, but he was still there, pacing around Sherlock's body like a vulture circling its prey.

"I guess the detective ain't as smart as 'e looks," the man taunted as he kneeled down and prodded Sherlock's limp arm, "He didn't even 'ear me coming!"

A second, much burlier, man plodded up the stairs and into the flat. It was clear as to why he wasn't the one to sneak up on Sherlock: the slam of his shoes on the wood as he walked could probably be heard across the street, never mind over Sherlock's violin. He asked the smaller man, "Did ya get the bastard?" upon entering, but it was obvious that his accomplice had done what was intended.

The other turned to look up at the burly man, grinning slyly, "He's out like a fucking rock!" He bragged, lifting up Sherlock's right arm and letting it drop comically to the floor again, forcing a little chuckle out of the burlier man.

"Serves 'im right! 'Teach him not to mess with us," the burlier man taunted as he took hold of Sherlock's ankles, one in each of his gigantic hands. The smaller man followed suit and hooked his arms under Sherlock's. Between the two of them, they managed to carry Sherlock downstairs and then out into a back alley, where their battered-up silver van was parked. Mrs Hudson didn't hear a thing as she was doing the daily vacuuming of her flat, that was the plan after all: get in and out unnoticed. The men then flung him into the back of the van, slammed the doors shut and sped off down the street.

 

* * * * * 

 

John returned to Baker Street not that long after Sherlock had been kidnapped. He had thought long and hard about what he was going to say to Sherlock and, now that he had time away from him to be able to cool down, he was ready to confront the detective.

"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, interrupting John's advancement up the stairs. "Sherlock has been awfully quiet and I'm concerned that he's doing one of his _experiments_ , so just be prepared."

John chuckled, "Alright, Mrs Hudson."

Continuing on towards 221B, John noticed that the front door to the flat had been left open. "He should be in, then," John thought to himself. John braced himself for the upcoming conversation with Sherlock and stepped inside. 

For the second time this week, John was greeted with the main living space being without a certain detective in it. He wandered towards the bathroom, listening closely for any movement.

 **Nothing**.

Sherlock's bedroom was empty again too, which sent a shiver down John's spine.

Searching for anything particularly out of place, John meandered back into the living room. He felt his stomach drop upon noticing the violin and it's bow discarded on the floor.  _That_ violin is incredibly precious to Sherlock, and for it to be left on the floor like that was unheard of.

John knelt down and took a careful hold of the violin, then reaching for its case. Surely, Sherlock would go beserk if he found his violin in this state and it was beneficial to everyone on the street if that was avoided. Just before closing the case, John spotted something nestled underneath the chin rest of the violin.

It was a small folded piece of paper.

John pulled it loose and opened it, discovering that it was in fact a note from an anonymous person. It read:

**If you want to see the Detective alive and well, Doctor, I suggest that you bring £10,000 cash to the address on the back at 10pm tomorrow.**

"Fucking shit!" John shouted, furiously grabbing a nearby mug and chucking it across the room so that it smashed loudly against the floor.

Mrs Hudson hurried upstairs and asked, "My goodness, what on earth is going on up here?"

John, now pacing around the flat, stopped and handed the note to her, before continuing his pacing. His knuckles were white from how forcefully his fists were clenching.

She opened it and read, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock. "T-this is awful, John!" She exclaimed, "What are we going to do?! Oh Sherlock!"

John, still pacing back and forth, replied calmly, "We have to call Mycroft. He would know how to help."

Mrs Hudson was reluctant to agree with John, "Is there anyone less... well... _vile_?" She asked, her nose turning up at the idea of that _reptile_ getting involved.

"He's his _brother_ , Mrs Hudson," John emphasised, "but, if it makes you feel better, we'll call Lestrade too."

Eventually accepting Mycroft's involvement in finding Sherlock, Mrs Hudson hurried downstairs to fetch her phone to call Lestrade whilst John contacted Mycroft on his phone.

Oh how long of a night it was going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic (it's short, I know), and I hope you like it! :)  
> I'm planning on having multiple chapters in this story, however I haven't decided on a specific storyline yet.  
> I apologise if there are any errors, and if there are could you please contact me so that I can fix them.  
> I'm excited to continue with this story and I would greatly appreciate any support you could give.
> 
> Thank you! - kawaii_melon


End file.
